


just for tonight darling (let’s get lost)

by claudia_allison_stilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, I don't know what the fuck this is, Multi, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Series, first time attempting to write smut leave me alone, i'm an awkward turtle yikes, or how this happened, stydia drunken threesome, stydia sexytimes, this is ooc but whatevs, wine this is the result of too much wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia_allison_stilinski/pseuds/claudia_allison_stilinski
Summary: Stiles + Lydia. And also Lydia's college roommate.(Oops.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dudes. I don't know. I don't know how this happened. (I personally don't think Stiles and Lydia would ever actually have a threesome, just for the record.)
> 
> This is incredibly embarrassing and I apologize for the awkwardness in advance. 
> 
> (I'm hollandroden on tumblr.)

By the time they make it out, the line to get into the girls’ favorite bar snakes down the block and around the corner. It’s freezing; New England levels of frigid, and the girls hadn’t bothered to wear jackets over their going-out clothes, so “fuck, no” is the consensus on waiting in said line. 

Stacy, Lydia’s roommate, pulls them into a nearby dive bar, a literal hole-in-the-wall sort of place.

It’s tiny, and too crowded to possibly be in accordance with any sort of fire code. Between being pressed far too tightly against a swarm of excessively sweaty bodies and the low-rent karaoke, Stiles is pretty sure they’ve stumbled into Hell. 

But servers also make the rounds of the dance floor, selling chicken teriyaki on a stick for a dollar, so at least he is somewhat mollified.

Turns out, chicken teriyaki pairs wonderfully with tequila shots and something with Jager and then also with some fancy new shot that the bartender recommends to Lydia, which gets pushed across the countertop towards them quite literally _on fire._

After last call (and a handful of final shots, which come in actual test tubes and glow in the dark - like magic! - and go down quite nicely), the three of them stumble onto the cobblestone sidewalk and somehow muster enough coordination between them to order a ride home.

They’re a sweaty, sticky mess, a veritable pile of limbs pressed together in the back of the Uber. Stacy curls into Lydia’s side, where Lydia’s stroking her hair in a decidedly maternal fashion, which warms his heart even more effectively than the flame shots. After Allison, Lydia had been friends with Kira and Malia, sure, but she kept herself at a bit of a distance. It was different. Here, at school, Lydia seems slightly more relaxed, a bit more open. 

When they get back to campus, Stacy’s rejuvenated from her brief nap, now vibrating with drunkenness and disappointment, as they waver their way back up to the girls’ dorm room.

“I just wanted to kiss someone, you know?” Stacy pouts, her intoxication causing her voice to melt and mold, as she half-stumbles, half-throws herself onto her bed unceremoniously.

Lydia, adorably drunk and swaying as she gestures across the tiny room, offers instantaneously. “I’ll kiss you!” she announces, her words slightly slurred, arms flung out for emphasis.

“Really?” Stacy asks, a “you’d-do-that-for-me” expression of drunk girl gratitude crossing her features. 

Lydia nods, in an official sort of way. “You’re hot. Yes.”

Stiles makes a rather undignified noise at this, wide-eyed, water bottle frozen halfway to his mouth.

To be fair, they are all really, really drunk. Tremendously, irresponsibly, probably medically risky drunk in the manner only 21 year-old college kids can achieve.

Lydia, having shucked off her heels, is now barefoot and a good three inches shorter. She sits beside Stacy, head tilted, appraising. She runs her fingers over the other girls cheekbones (a familiar move, Stiles notes) before leaning in.

From his perch on Lydia’s neatly made bed, he too leans forward, mouth remaining ajar, eyes wide as Lydia’s plush lips capture Stacy’s. Stacy tilts her head in response, allowing Lydia access, and they’re working at each other’s mouths, slowly at first, then with a building ferocity. 

Even if he’s dreaming, or hallucinating, this is better than any porn he’s ever seen. 

(And he’s seen a lot.)

His eyes almost bug out of his head when he sees Lydia’s hand trailing down, resting at Stacy’s breast over the tightness of her top. Drunk as he is, he feels himself growing harder by the millisecond. Stacy sucks at Lydia’s lower lip, causing her to actually fucking whimper. Lydia’s small hands slide under her roommates lacy camisole. There’s a flurry of movement, and then Stacy’s shirtless and Lydia’s sitting up, gesturing at the zipper of her dress. 

He should maybe feel jealous, but what he actually feels is hella turned on.

Lydia makes eye contact, then, as if asking for permission.

Oh fuck yes. Please. He thinks his holy-god-is-this-a-dream? expression must be evident, as Lydia smirks, then crooks a finger at him.

He almost implodes right there, on Lydia’s bazillion thread count duvet.

Tripping over his own feet, he makes his way over to the other bed, toeing off his sneakers in the process. Lydia sweeps her hair over one shoulder, giving him access to her zipper, then leans forward once more, capturing Stacy’s mouth and lips and yup, _tongue_ with hers. 

As soon as he gets a slight return to his (off-kilter, ethanol affected) senses, he’s carefully unzipping Lydia’s dress, helping her slide the sleeves down her arms, revealing her lacy push-up bra that she _definitely doesn’t even need_. He takes a long moment - mouth watering, dick growing ever harder - to stare at his girlfriend’s pale cleavage, overflowing from the tops of her bra cups. (There may have been outward, audible groaning involved, but he’s not sure.)

As soon as the dress falls to Lydia’s feet in a pile of fabric, both girls make quick work of Stiles’ t-shirt. Lydia’s lips hover over his ear, breathing out, “Is this okay?”

“More than okay,” he mumbles, and then her lips are sliding over his, messy and insistent.

Yup. So this. This is happening. (Talk about escalating quickly, right?)

He had, of course, registered previously that Stacy was attractive. But his girlfriend was Lydia Martin, so it was more of a casual, barely-registered, completely insignificant observation. Something in line with, “Hey, it’s sunny outside today. Lydia’s roommate is cute. What’s for dinner, again?”

But now. Now, his half-naked girlfriend is encouragingly placing his hands on her equally-as-disrobed roommate’s breasts, which are spilling over the top of her black bra, warm and delightfully firm against his palms. His head is spinning, no longer just from the overabundance of alcohol consumed, and he glances back towards Lydia, whose face is devious and alight.

Well, alrighty then.

He starts moving at the same time Lydia crouches down to work at his zipper, his fingers brushing over Stacy’s chest, evaluating. She reaches back, unclasping her bra, allowing him to slide the straps down her arms before his fingers resume their slow strokes over her breasts, focusing on her nipples, pulling and coaxing them harder. 

Then Lydia’s dragging his jeans down, and pushing him onto the bed - these tiny dorm-issue beds are completely impractical for these sorts of activities, but he figures _they’ll make it work_ , somehow. Considering the fact that they are basically a tangled heap of limbs on the bed too small for one, never mind three theoretically grown adults, he now has a front-row seat as Lydia starts pressing chaste kisses to the other girl’s forehead, then cheeks, then lips, working her way down to her neck, then collarbone, where she nips at the delicate skin, sucking gently then not-so-gently, leaving blooming marks behind on Stacy’s tanned skin. 

Noticing that Stiles’ movements have stilled, Lydia quirks an eyebrow at him, chastising him with her wide eyes, as she shifts lower on the bed, effectively sandwiching Stacy between them. She continues to watch Stiles imploringly, even after he returns his attention to Stacy’s breasts, skin silky and divine against the rough pads of his fingers. Lydia finally breaks her glare as soon as he lowers his head to the other girl’s chest, catching a tightened nipple in his mouth, tongue and thoughts swirling, a storm of sensation.

Lydia makes her way down to Stacy’s hips, her fingers slipping _just_ under the edge of her roommate’s lacy underwear. He doesn’t move a muscle - he’s pretty sure he doesn’t so much as release a single molecule of air from his lungs - the entire time Lydia ever-so-slowly slides Stacy’s underwear down her legs, before throwing them squarely at Stiles’ face. 

He blinks.

Lydia returns, pressing soft kisses to the inside of Stacy’s thigh, her Thinking Face evident, though slightly unfocused due to the amount of inebriation. Stiles watches, transfixed, as Lydia surveys her friend’s naked, naughtiest bits for a long moment, before gently running her fingers over her folds. She slides first one perfectly manicured finger, then another, inside, eliciting what could only be described as a moan of relief from Stacy.

This seems to encourage Lydia, who shimmies closer, laying on her stomach, so she can skate her pretty tongue over Stacy’s warmth. She repeats this motion several times, creating a rhythm as her fingers continue to thrust into Stacy, producing deliciously _sinful_ , sloppy noises that go straight to his dick.

Apparently, Stacy notices, because then she’s tugging him closer, pulling him towards her mouth, tongue lapping at his length. Her technique, of course, differs from Lydia’s, which is sort of strange but also, if he’s honest, completely thrilling. She laps lightly at his head, slides her mouth urgently up the shaft, licking and groaning feverishly before taking him all, as deep as she can, lips and fingers wrapping around him with just enough delicious pressure. If his brain hadn’t been short-circuited before, it certainly was now, with her soft, warm, wet mouth devouring him, every nerve ending _smoldering_ as Lydia works her from below. 

As far as he knows, Lydia’s never done this before - but she’s _Lydia_ , so it’s really no surprise when, in what feels like no time at all, Stacy’s quaking with her release, skin dewy with perspiration. Her moans vibrate against him, sending him careening over the proverbial edge, shooting his release into the balmy heaven of her mouth.

When he opens his eyes again, Lydia’s sitting up, eyes glistening, almost as shiny as her mouth, covered in slick. She dives for Stacy, leaning over her now as their mouths collide. Stiles takes advantage of Lydia’s ass in the air, touching and pressing featherlight kisses down the knobs of her lower spine, into the dimpled hollows above her hips. He pulls the lace of her panties to the side, slipping first one then two fingers inside of her, where oh, she feels so wet and tight and _perfect_. She clenches helplessly against his fingers, whimpering into Stacy’s mouth, which he dizzyingly imagines must taste like _him_.

They don’t say much throughout, everything is mostly flashes of moans and various body parts in the dim light and so many sensations (so, so many), all clouded in the surreal blur of profound drunkenness and impulsive lust.

There’s his head buried between Stacy’s legs, Lydia’s voice warm against his cheek as she watches, urging, “Show her how good you are with that mouth.”

There’s Stacy going down on Lydia with unabashed enthusiasm, eliciting some of the most beautiful, primal noises he’s ever heard. Lydia’s eyes locked on his the whole time, hand wrapped around him, nimble fingers working at his dick.

Then Stacy’s flush against Lydia’s back, arms wrapped around her, head resting on Lydia’s shoulder. The sight of Stacy’s purple nails - so dainty and feminine - massaging and plucking at Lydia’s nipples as she rides him fervently causes an unbidden groan to erupt from his panting mouth. Stacy quiets his noises with her mouth over his, and he swears he can taste not only Lydia but also himself on her tongue. 

He actually does implode this time, coming wildly, shaking with the force of it. 

_Fuck._

* * *

  


His eyes fly open, fuzzy recollections of the previous night hitting him almost as hard as the wave of nausea, which is a veritable tsunami of a hangover, really. Lydia, curled beside him, is already awake when he turns to check, her eyes open and worried, crinkling adorably. 

“Morning,” he rasps, eyes raking over her expression, suddenly worried, himself. In the light of morning, certain choices and actions seem questionable, at best. Utterly stupid and implosive and destructive, at worst. 

Did she regret what had happened? Had they broken something, lost something they wouldn’t be able to recover? ‘Cause… no matter how insanely hot last night’s scenario had been (and damn, had it ever) it wouldn’t be worth losing Lydia over, worth losing _them_. 

“Morning,” she echoes, eyes flitting over his features, searching for answers. “How are you feeling?” 

It’s the uncertainty that undoes him. She is Lydia Martin, and Lydia Martin knows, well, everything. She knows about experimental molecular genetics, and obscure European composers, and how to write in Archaic Latin, for fuck’s sake. He had thought, by now, that she also understood the depth and breadth of his all-encompassing love for her (only her, ever), but if she needed a reminder, well. 

He sits up, the movement not helping with the nausea situation, but he has bigger issues at hand. He tucks a strand of hair behind Lydia’s ear, the very way he had spent actual years fantasizing about. She’s biting her lip, and looks uncertain and shaky in a way that reminds him of sixteen year-old Lydia lying on top of his bed, bare feet tucked behind her. 

His job, even then, was to remind her. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft, fingers cupping her cheeks, nudging her to look at him. He’s uncharacteristically pre-selecting his next words, considering them carefully in his head, when Lydia interjects.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles- are you mad?” the words tumble out in a rush of anxiety and expelled breath. Her expression contorts, considering another horror: that maybe he isn’t mad. 

“Hey,” he repeats, as her wrists come up to clutch at his, hands still stroking her face reassuringly. “I’m not mad. I’m not. Are you upset?” He surveys her, the actual love of his life, who shakes her head. “From what I can remember of last night, a lot happened,” he starts, delicately. “Which.. is what it is.” He winces, wishing he were able to express himself properly. He suspects, given several more hours, some coffee, maybe some leftover pizza, and definitely a few episodes of vomiting, this will be an easier feat. 

“But… it didn’t mean anything, right?” he asks, tentative. 

She starts. “Of course not. I just…”

He finishes her sentence with his own sentiment, the barest truth. “I don’t wanna share you.”

Lydia’s expression melts into something akin to relief. She offers him a tiny smile. “Good,” she admits. “I don’t want to share you either.”

“So we’re okay?” he asks, hopeful.

“We’re okay,” she promises. 

She snuggles into him, allowing him to press kisses and “just you’s” into her (very, very messy) hair. 

They doze like that for another little while, fingers and legs intertwined.

And then, yes, he finally does need to throw up.

(He blames the flame shots.)


End file.
